Friday, April 28, 2006

What good is an internets if you can’t do good. Or at least not do evil.

At Bishop Ireton HS this morning, some kid named Jarel posted a giant sign at the schools entrance that read “Michelle, will you go to prom with me?” But crusty old Principal Vernor or Sister Ireton or however crushes children’s spirits in Catholic schools made him take it down only after a few minutes. We do not know if Michelle saw the sign before it was removed. The whole thing happened in the time it took me to buy a dozen donuts.

You tried Jarel, you honestly tried. It’s not as good as Theo hiring a helicopter to take his date to prom, but you still have time. So if you’re reading this Michelle, and you arrived to school a little bit late, Jarel would really like to go to prom with you. Having only seen him across the street through a Dunkin’ Donuts window, I can accurately say that he’s a good kid and you’ll have a fun time. Michelle, you only get to go to your senior prom with that special guy once* so please appreciate the 10 minutes and entire duct tape roll that went into Jarel’s efforts.

*Unless you’re the G who went to 4 consecutive proms with older guys, starting when she was in 8th grade, but then bailed on her own when she was a senior. Or at least I think that’s what she told me, but I was too busy reminiscing about all those touchdowns I was scored and cheerleaders I was dated and nerds I stuffed in lockers.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

(I'm not DRUNK persay, but I definitely was at a business dinner conversing mostly about technical journals (and a little bit about how hot "Judy" from "Lost in Space" was????) for the past few hours. So if none of this makes sense, well: suck it???)

CA's speech was short and sweet, like most half-decent keynotes are. Most of it, esp. as a younger-ish audience member, was flat common sense - this "long tail" theory of his is something people have been talking about for a few years now (high quality product provided "wide and shallow") - he's just been able to reformat and brand the whole thing, packaging it neatly with a pretty scalloped ribbon into a scrapbook. Whatever you think of his writing/his publication/his business theories - I've ended up preordering it, so I guess you win, Chris. Clever!

The most awesome part of the speech was watching the 50 n 60 n grandpa-aged-something year old radio antenna manufacturers squint to read such presentation gems as: Slide #2- featuring a photo of NSync, Slide #16- titled "WTF???", Slide #16 or so- taken up by a DFW quote, and slide #- I dunno, 25? which mentioned MySpace, Wikipedia, and blogs. Like to have made steam escape from many an ear, and heads implode into mushy gray and green matter. OMG it was just like - too cool for school or whatever.

A billion related links are out there, for just about any industry or subject you can dream. the book related blog:

http://www.thelongtail.com

So, lets all hold hands and start a book club - we'll discuss, in seers depth, that market we're all missing as we try n shill future products. Get back to me, we'll meet a 'burb Starbucks on Sunday mornings or something.

I just reread all this and realized how bitter I sound. All apologies, Chris Anderson. I'm sure yr brilliant face-to-face, but right now all I'm facing is an early morning in the hotel business center faxing dumb shit I should have taken care of days ago. Also being stared at, cause I will so so so so still be wearing my PJs. (And, Re: said PJs: If you were # 65 on the St. Albans football team prior to 1999 or so, call me. I have been wearing yr teeshirt like I am yr high school girlfriend for YEARS now. It is extremely soft and awesome, and I bought it at the Glebe Road Goodwill.)

(local news update: I know. YES. KFedz, Britz, the gang. Crying ensuing poolside. No, I didn't make it to the show. Popozao will have to wait til Oh Seven.)

Oh my god, I am so going to bed. Here's the recap, in case none of the above made sense: I saw Chris Anderson talk today. Britney's in town. I own a strange former high school football players teeshirt. I am still here in Vegas. That's all you really didn't need to know. Nevermind me, go listen to "Sampson." Regina Spektor is kind of like if Kate Bush ate Norah Jones. And then ate Bjork. I either really dig it, or I hate it. Help me decide, lunatics!

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Marvel Comics presents What if… How I Met Your Mother if these had existed 15 years ago...

Kids, I paid for college by installing air conditioners during the summer. It was hard and honest, good strong American labor. The kind I expect you to do in a few years. One day we got a work order to install a custom Maryland Fear the Turtle outdoor compressor unit for some crazy woman way out in Faraway, Virginia. While I was cutting the copper tubing I looked up and was startled to see cow chewing its cud about 20 feet from us. The beast stared at us for a few minutes before rambling off into the neighbor’s yard. About ten minutes later a 12 year old boy came running by and asked if we had seen a cow. We pointed west and the kid followed chase. I went to tell the crazy woman about the incident but a pretty girl answered the door instead. Various pleasantries were exchanged and ten years later we were married. That pretty girl was your mother.

1. I have been in Las Vegas for less than 48 hours. I have eaten here twice. No, not my choice. Luckily, I have been assigned my very own intern to corrupt. I plan on hazing him mid-day at bars that do not feature Klingons or Ferengi or what the fuck ever. OH, also. My boss has a pic of me in BUS CASJ wear, standing with a Borg. I'm considering posting it and saying it was me at Cobrasnake and seeing if anyone questions the photo origins. My guess: no.

2. I may or may not have overheard the words "staff teambuilding" in the same sentence with "photo op on the Enterprise bridge."

3. I tend to work a LOT in this city. Some day, I'd like to come for fun. And by fun, I mean stripping off my Sensoslacks and wearing a linen kerchief as a dress. WHO'S IN?

4. My coworkers home is mostly automated via the web, like the FUTURE HOUSE that you always dreamed would come to life and kill you. It's 11:30 pm on Saturday night, I'm in Vegas, and for fun, in five minutes, I am going to the appropriate URL to turn on his lawn sprinklers and flash his living room lights a few times. His daughter is having a slumber party or something right now. It is guaranteed to be extremely hilarious and radical.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

You may have heard that we had some significant termite damage under our kitchen floor. We’ve had guys hauling things around our house for three days, tearing stuff up, laying junk down. And let me tell you, it’s been a horrible disaster.

By disaster I of course mean that absolutely everything went perfectly fine and there hasn’t been anything to blog. The contractors finished when they said they would. There was nothing broken. The dog was fine. The new floor looks great. And because the condo association is responsible for any structural damage, it didn’t cost any pieces of eight. Woe is the blogger with major home repairs with nothing to blog. Disgraceful.

My only consternation is that I now wish that the Eddie and JL hadn’t moved the fridge and stove back to the kitchen. I kinda liked making my Hot Pockets and Ecto Cooler right there in the dining room.

The dishwasher is next to the sofa

The surgery did reveal an interesting piece of information about the houses former homeowners. Between two layers of crappy linoleum tiling under the fridge, Eddie excavated this two-sided scrap from November 25, 1985.

VS.

Question is we don’t know if John and Jane Alexandria were the acceptable fans of Gary Larson or the dishonorable fans of Bil Keane. Unfortunately, early forensic tests seem to lean toward Dolly and whatever her mute brother’s name is.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

A few years back my cousin had a little, tiny, adorable son. Since no one in my family can exist without a nickname, his first name was bastardized and we all welcomed T-Bone into this cold world. Being the awesomely hip cousins and cousins-in-law that we are got him a kicking shirt from Neighborhoodies.

But now more cousins are having more babies and there are silent assumptions that they deserve shirts as well. And since we have never feared being awesome we will oblige. Probs is we got no ideas. T-Bone was easy. One was born last month and there is a third one on the way.

We need your help. We dont want to be two kids behind.

The new one's name is Oliver. I keep getting stuck on a little hoodie that just says “Closeoff” in big, block letters.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

(here, I'll make the quote for you. that way, you don't have to leave it in the comments: "Oh, yeah, what are you gonna do? Release the dogs? Or the bees? Or the dogs with bees in their mouth and when they bark, they shoot bees at you?" See, now you don't feel the need to say that. do you. DO YOU.)

1. I do have something hilarious to blog, but it's going to take me a little time to wrap my head around the entire story. Also, it involves my fifteen minutes of "fame" that JUST. WON'T. DIE. So this needs to be kept under wraps for a few more days. Eventually, I'll spill.

2. I have officially run out of profiles that humor me on MySpace. I really peaked early w. the pseudo-MPD/schizo buck-toothed brain damaged* amateur swimsuit model (yes) from the hometown, ("Interests: Modeling, Boyz, Chiropracting"), but I was hoping to find something more. Alas. It seems it is not to be.

3. How does one translate conversations that are so funny in real time into a blog entry? One blogyear later, and color me stumped. Somehow deep in my very soul I feel people need to know about the N. and I's Friday night conversation, entitled: "What It Must Be Like to Go Through Pirate Family Therapy," but I just don't know how to pull it off. ("Yarrrr, me father made me walk the plank and me mother never listened to my inner child, yarrrr.")

It all started because there is a family therapy center in Old Town that had jars of treats in the window, assumedly to bribe families into talking. Hard candy? Sure. Gotcha. Gum? Cool. Twizzlers? Yes. Understood. Ritz Crackers? Um, okay?

"That's for when it's the parrots turn to emote. Yarr."

Sigh. Had to be there.

4.

Kitchen is in mass-destruction mode. Rotted wood/ brittle masonite/layer upon layer of "harvest gold" linoleum. Like: atom bomb. This involves moving the appliances, which have not been moved (no exaggeration) since 1984. It is, in a word, foul. I am expecting to come home to the most awesome display of home improvement this side of crappy TLC programming. My expectations are high.

5.

My rubber chicken order came in. Hint, if you order 5 or more, you get a free gift.

Pls leave your name, number, brief message as to how best employ vampire teeth. Not just any old vamp teeth, WOLFMAN vampire teeth. I'm thinking a quiet night of free drinks 'n nickel slots in the LV, some "me" time, sporting teeth for maximum wolfwoman fright. I'm kind of feeling Circus Circus.

* not juvy hyperbole-stee. she really hit he rhead or something, at least taht's what her mom claims.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Because of various dog torturings (see-picture below), newborn baby fawning, crab quiche comatosis and other various Easter blessings* we didn’t get around to the Sunday Post until late last night.

Cotillion.

There was an article in the Sunday Source about the same cotillion I attended as a rosy cheeked young man. The story has the author attempting to increase his Elfin salad fork hit points by defeating preteens in their most flustering and weakened environment. It’s all very nice as we follow along while the writer no doubt makes a blundering mistake and probably steps on somebody’s foot. I can’t say I read the article too carefully. (if you write nothing but immature and uninformed blog entries about Post articles does their Technorati feature still link back to you?) But what I did capture from the article was that it failed to address the terrifying ordeal cotillion provides when you are there as a 13-year-old and not a late 20-something trying to learn how to woo tipsy bridesmaids at your cousin’s wedding.

Take a kid at his most oafish, throw him in with dozens of other gangly lads, force him to wear an ill-fitted suit and mix in a few peach-fuzzed alpha boys and you will accurately have one side of a cotillion dance floor. Across 25 yards of DMZ sit an equal number of young ladies in confusingly various stages of female development, awaiting you to squeak out an invitation to knock knees during a stuttering version of the foxtrot. Watch as a young Americans teens wipe nervous perspiration from their hairless faces, claw at itchy collars or their older sister’s poorly altered Confirmation dresses. It was so horrible.

I tried to psyche myself up before each session, making the mental list of girls whose hands would advance my social standing; the ones with cool sisters in the higher grades and were accordingly guaranteed some degree of reflected popularity. I, of course, always ended up milling about until there were a few unpicked “safe” females, desperate for anyone to end the equally embarrassing position of not being selected at all. My only deliverances were the few Sadie Hawkins dances that left me so relieved not to have to make first move that I would have gladly danced with class’s doting old instructor. That was me sprinting out of the front door at the end of class, gasping for the cold winter air, casting aside my father’s old tie.

There were only glancing allusions to this in Sunday’s article.

Fortunately, there were some positives that came out of those sessions. First, I can dance relatively well. Second, after our final class, my parents and several of my friend’s parents took some of us out for pizza and while the bill was being settled, we youngsters started a snowball fight in the parking lot. J. Geiger attempted to cowardly hide inside his parent’s car but I so expertly threw a snowball that it slipped past the closing door and exploded all over him and the vehicle’s interior. I was so awesome, you should have seen it. My snowballing acumen has preceded me ever since. So I guess cotillion wasn’t all bad.

*During the children’s sermon the assistant pastor used a box with a false wall to demonstrate the Resurrection. She placed a little Jesus inside, closed the “tomb” and when it was reopened the Savior was gone. I told the G. I did not approve of such parlor tricks in church. She agreed, feeling it flirted too closely with witchcraft.

I leave for A LOT OF TIME in Vegas on Friday. So I'll be gone for a little while, but fret ye not, young kiddies. Maybe I can post all my crazy photos from there. And by crazy, I mean photos of myself, mopey and work-hungover, drinking from half-empty plastic cups of watered down margarita mix while slouched over the black jack table at The Western.

Any suggestions on how to avoid offing myself while there? My Vegas tolerance is 42 hours, max.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

So much oozinghate, yo. So, there's sitting involved. And like: a weird junior-highschoolish stage. And sound issues, at times.

Reasons I secretly love DAR Constitution Hall:

1. The first time I ever went to DAR was on a date. It was 1993. I saw Tears for Fears Elemental tour, I wore Birkenstocks (w. socks), and the opening band (wait for it): Jellyfish (I THINK.) I still have that teeshirt, and it. is. awesome. I do clearly recall that the boyfriend lost his wallet that night, and some dude in Maryland called him up and returned it the next day, all money/ID/single Shell Gas credit card his dad had given him perfectly intact. Also, I wore the shirt to school the next day, and a kid I hardly knew complemented me on it, an we became fast friends until graduation and college (me)/joining the Air Force-slash-getting into rockabilly intervened (him).*

2. The N and I once saw BB King and Clarence Carter there. We sat kind of near Marion Barry. If I recall, he was sweaty. Also, it's the only venue in which I've witnessed Sonic Youth. Although Marion wasn't there for that show. UNFORT!

3. I'm legacy, dammit. No seriously, I am. Hilarious, I know. It's like Viking boinked** good ol US of A hillbilly, and this is what you get. If Pygs participated in memes at all, that might be one of my "6 weird things you don't know about me."

Oh, nevermind, no it wouldn't.

Post yr fondest DAR memories below, if they exist. DARE YOU.

(* Then he got manhandled by campus cops at GMU for a little demonstrating. You may have heard about it on the streets.)

for those of you who dont know, i watch a lot of TV at work. PSA: there's a 20 pound Flemish Giant rabbit on some crappy ass talk show right now, and I am freaking out. THEY CAN BE LEASHED AND HOUSETRAINED, PEOPLE. Better than BD, probs!

This is one of those “did you see…” or “did you hear…” entries. Almost as bad as back to back posted IM conversations:

1. Cruisin’ to work and I heard this story on forced evictions in Israeli settlements in the West Bank. I’m sorry, but did that interviewee just make a Three 6 Mafia reference on NPR? When talking about the difficulties planning for the future with the threat of mandatory resettlement. Let’s check:

“I think at this time it is really dangerous to spend money. Everyone is afraid, Pimpin is hard. Like in the song.”

He did. Sho’ nuff.

2. Cruisin to the sofa last night I saw a Home Despot commercial in which two newlyweds are bummed to hear that the cancellation of their flight means that the entire honeymoon is somehow null set. Never fear! they realize as they can spend those same two weeks picking out garden tools with the help of the Olympic athletes at the Depot and re-landscape their backyard! Honeymoon saved! The yard looks great! Yeah!

Here’s how it would have played out in the Pyggy house: two newlyweds are bummed to hear that the cancellation of their flight means that the entire honeymoon is somehow null set. Never fear! they realize, we can spend those same two weeks picking out garden tools with the help of the Olympic athletes at the Depot as they watch in horror as the Governess buries an axe in the back of my head for ruining her life. Yeah!

Impossible you think. But you didn’t see her at the airport the day of our honeymoon. The day that I forgot my wallet and ID, had to drive home to retrieve it, and then didn’t check our bags for an international flight until 20 minutes before takeoff. There was almost some murdering that day.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

(for like half a second this afternoon, I had the weirdest kind of nostalgia: a lightening-quick panic-flashback, like OMG: WHAT AM I DOING IN THIS OFFICE?!?!?!!?! I should be at the Bailey's house, eating cake frosting straight from the fridge, making fun of this neighborhood kid named Matt who was scared to get his driver's license, wearing ancient fall-apart cutoffs, wondering about a history exam, or something. I really never want to be a teenager again, it was just a sudden freakout. It's okay, I'm cool. It passed really quickly.)

me: I work for a 3-person office now. Everything is done manually. A mule-and-oxen team powers the AC

TR: Great! Does that mean you can't call out sick?

me: I can call out sick. I think my coworker calls in apathetic and probably sometimes drunk.

TR: Beautiful. "I can't come in today, I'm lonely"

me: we're going to Vegas for work for a full week, and all he can talk about is drinking. So, naturally, I love my new job. I have Urban Dance Squad's "Deeper Shade of Soul" playing over the intercom right now. If that doesn't get me fired, then I'm at a loss.

* similar conversations often occur when yr pals work for major airlines. Someone at Fox had written an entire sitcom about TR's life called "The Loop." Just as we were contemplating ways to sue, TR's life was cancelled. Harsh. ALSO, TR and I used to be obsessed with the fact that BMWs had air conditioned glove compartments because German's didn't want their chocolate bars to melt. Ture or false? Fuck it, I don't really care either way, I just love the thought of it.

- - -

One of these days, we will outgrow our house, and therefore outgrow our neighborhood, and I will be so sad to leave. You really have no idea.

This morning before work, I ran errands. I got my emissions test done, 2 weeks late. I went to the post office.

At the post office, the guy who always works the desk in the mornings, Fraser, was jumping rope out on the sidewalk. Apparently, he does this every morning, in full regulation USPS uniform.

I hadn’t spent much time down on the newly security-scaped Washington Monument grounds since they dug the anti-disgruntled farmer on tractor trenches until the Great American Kite-off of two weeks ago. But my reaction: feh. If it makes the park service feel safe, then I got no problems.

However, I am dissatisfied with the landscaping choices, especially when sporting on the new grass. When it’s dry, like it has been for the last month, it’s worse than Astro-turf and any slide tackles leave gross raspberries. If it’s wet, like it was on Saturday, it seems the drainage is (not to be too punny but) of low-grade. Football canceled on Sunday. Boo.

As if taking football away from me wasn’t bad enough, having no business in the city also robbed me of the Funcycle.

Funcycle you say?

Indeeds. On Wednesday I saw a strange contraption slowly moving up 15th Street towards Freedom Plaza. On it were 4 young hipsters (Fall Out Boy haircuts) and what appeared to be a tour guide wearing a Bike the Sites shirt. Being naturally curious I went to their website but saw no mention of the thing. Being a naturally annoying person I went to their website and wrote this letter:

A few days ago I was driving near the White House and I think I saw one of your group tours. But your website doesn't seem to showcase the vehicle I saw. I was driving by rather quickly but it almost looked like some sort of octopus bicycle. It looked like there were several people riding one machine, but not facing the same direction and yet all going the same way. Was this you guys? If so, what type of machine is it? Is this device available for tours? Is it strenuous or uncomfortable? Would it be suitable for my grandparents? Can everyone see where they are going? I am having a hard time describing it to people. Do you know if there is a photo of this contraption anywhere?

Because Bike the Sites is a well run company, I received a response from their president almost immediately. And he accused me of hallucinating. In fact, this is preciously (precisely?) what he said. “You must be hallucinating.” Having properly disarmed me, he charmingly continued.

Actually, you saw what we call the FunCycle, a bicycle for six plus one driver. We have a set tour that we do around federal triangle. We do not go to the monuments as of yet. You can check it out at www.bostonpedalparty.com. We will have our website up shortly. Tours start this Sunday and will run Friday-Monday, 11AM-7PM.

Boston Pedal Party in da House! Based solely on the main picture from the website, I’d have to say the Funcycle is ideal for bachelorette parties or some sort of sorority formal, especially if you all have the same coat and identical haircuts. And based on the slide show offered by the site, I’d also have to say the Jimmy Carter loves him some Funcycle. And there is some sort of giant peanut/Nobel Peace laureate hybrid out there someplace in America.

So having never been on the thing and having no clue how it works and having no desire to see the tour of the Federal Triangle on a giant tricycle, I fully endorse Bike the Sites and their fantabulous thingamabob. There is a brief mention on their site now. My suggestion is if you have a free weekend and don’t want to come watch my football game and meet my single, athletic, well-off, handsome and funny teammates, well, than you might want to consider the Funcycle.

Spent all morning Saturday avoiding the Great Home De-mess and uploading songs-n-bits onto the new Nano.* I hibernated in the basement and took a few clear, detached looks around. And now, I am considering a yard sale - is anyone interested? A blogger yardsale? Is that possible?

A half-painted Ikea chair, meant as a baby gift for a child now over a year old? 8000 million CDs, and 75,000 tapes, many of them created my freshman year of college by my old roommate Rob, and containing 7x the reccommended daily allowance of Red House Painters? Lots and lots and lots of unecessary Star Wars figurines that will maybe someday "pay for my children's college education," if certain people are to be believed? Gift wrap?

I have a thing with gift wrap. I cannot throw away bows, even ones that have been re-used several times and are bent and cut and ugly. It's almost as weird as my Easter decoration-thing, and my fear of claymation. Almost, not quite.

Other things: Friday, we were drunk on terrible margaritas and even worse Mexican food when we saw this guy and his friend, and yelled at him down the street. You are lucky you could not get a seat there, guy, it was pretty crappy. Additionally, I apologize to the certainly very kind ladies who were taking surveys on recycling or something outside the Shirlington bookstore. It's true, I usually hate being asked to take surveys, but I was in the middle of a conversation, and confused, and so I did not mean to so rudely brush you off/totally ignore you, to the point where I'm pretty sure one of you muttered "bitch" under your breath, which is fine, cause it was kind of bitchy of me, but I usually (usually) am not quite as bitchy if you get to know me. So, sorry about that. I got over my own rudeness about 30 minutes later via terrible Megarita-thing, I'm hoping you got over my rudeness too.

I got good phone calls and text messages this weekend, too. Drunk friends getting kicked out of bars for starting popcorn fights, and then giving out OTHER friends numbers after participating in "you got served"-style dance offs in Ocean City "clubs" named something like "seacrets" or whatever? Hilarity.

Also: Why was I not warned that "A History of Violence" was so ridiculously terrible? The eve started off so wonderfully with Elevation Burger, and then ended in a snoozefest on the couch.

Anyways, despite all my proclomations of things being "terrible" this weekend, it was lovely out, I took walks and went to the park, and cleaned my house a little, and now all I have to do is get my car emissions inspected before the Commonwealth slaps another ticket on my windshield, and then homies, we are set.

* I have forgotten the ways of the Pod People. This morning, I was standing in the lobby waiting for the elevator, completely absorbed in Podness, watching CNN on the new lobby big screen (The headline: "GOSSIP SCANDAL") and some very nice lawyer was holding the elevator door forme, and trying to get my media-soaked attention, and when I finally looked around and snapped-to, I had to yell over The Coral, "OH THANKS!" and the entire lobby stared. the end.

Wall of Sound Fest. I once had a conversation with someone in the Death Ray Davies (I think his name was Mike?) about the Justice League, San Antonio, and Old 97s. He was a really nice guy.

3.

This is not req. reading, but:

the next time you spot two kind of rumpled blondes couplesing around the grocery store at 10 o'clock at night and you see that the female has seen a spaghetti squash, one of her favorite vegetables that she still can't cook correctly, but loves because its gloopy innards fascinate her and bring out her inner 10-year-old-pumpkin carving self, pls. to remind her that these thing are giant fucking pains in the ass, and she almost cuts off her thumb every time she attempts to prepare them, and that also. Also, hi, internets, are you still paying attention? Also I she will probably forget to scoop out the innards BEFORE she cooks them, so it's not only hard to cut, but also disastrous to a specific level, one where I am she will still be picking strands of squash OFF HER CEILING two days later. The squash strands, btw, were hanging from oily spots on the ceiling. Caused by the Nabob's attempt at fried ice cream.

How much am I enjoying daylight savings, or WHAT. Enough that I'm staying up late every night like it's a right or something, pretending ike it's already summer vacation. Yes, today is rainy, but in the last few days popsicles n leather sandals have been broken out, and I bought an actual dress last night, something I don't usually do until the therm hits at least 70 on a regular basis. If I lived in Iceland or something, you'd never see me. I'd hole up under my covers for my entire life, sad and depressed and the weak sun. Dude, and I'm a Viking. The universe's most weak and pathetic Viking.

5. My friend MJ , dispatching from the hard streets of Apex/Cary, has recently found a book of Communist Worker Jokes.

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?A: Chicken? There is no chicken. Only bread and milk.

Three men—one Mexican, one Polish, and one English—are lost in the desert. The Mexican man is carrying a bottle of water. The Englishman is carrying an umbrella. The Polish man is carrying a car door. The Mexican man says, "I have this water for when I get thirsty." The Englishman says, "I have this umbrella for when the sun gets too hot." The Polish man says, "I did not expect a desert to be in my Five-Year Plan."

Q: What's the first thing a blonde does in the morning?A: Gives thanks to Our Glorious Leader and then goes to her job at a factory.

More later as he continues reading.

* * *

OH! one other update, I think I own a Nano now. With a WARRANTY. More as the tale unfolds.

You should have seen the look on her face when she found that parking ticket on her windshield for not putting those little stickers on her plates. I know I didn’t. But I bet it was furrowed and angered. Classic Governess.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

I watched about 19 seconds of the championship Monday night. No dog, no fight – an incurious concern for UCLA - an unspecific and disobliging attitude toward any Florida university – general weariness. Pick any of those reasons and they could all fit for my sports-fan negligence. Also, the one guy I know who went to Florida was defused when I told him I didn’t see the game. But there is a deeper reason, one that has nothing to do with basketball or brackets or college. The Super Bowl commercials stunk this year.

Come the end of the football season, much is said of the money advertiser spend on the Championship game. However there is little said of how the most popular of these spots meet their demise come the Final Four. I don’t mean the end of the ad campaigns, of course, I mean the public willingness to stomach them. The natural reaction when an agency has hit commercial or catch phrase on their hands is to rush follow-ups, guaranteeing buzz for at least a few weeks. These campaigns usually culminate in the week between the Sweet Sixteen and Championship with beer commercials usually most at fault. Quick examples: The Budweiser Frogs and the Whazzz-up guys and those chicks who wrestled in the cement and the fat guys who trannied up for cheap beers on Ladies Night.

The problem with this advertising philosophy is that is often means the death bell for actual creative campaigns. There is only so much you can do to stretch some of these gimmicks. Maybe not the best one, but an example is the Doctor Galakowitz beer commercial from about 10 years ago. A man approaches a limo driver at the airport and claims to be the man named on the placard. He naturally butchers the name Doctor Galacawiczch. When corrected by the driver, the weasel answers “Yes, I am!” and is allowed entrance to the limo to savor the good doctor’s Bud Light.

Hilarious at the time, both the name Galacawiczch and the punchline “Yes, I am!” enjoyed a few weeks of popularity and retelling in high schools and workplaces. Nothing funnier than a mangled Eastern European last name. Or so we thought until Budweiser redid the commercial for the Final Four and disastrously featured the name and amazingly unfunny persona of Duke’s Mike Krzyzewski. Having Coach K squeak his name out of his tiny, puckered lips was dreadful. The campaign appropriately ended shortly after.

Unfortunately, this same fate fell upon the genius Slacker/Holiday Inn commercials as well. Although the product (Holiday Inn) and the punchline (What does this look like, a Holdiay Inn?) are things I will/have never use/d, the characters in the ads were a favorite of the Pygs. It may be that the main character Mark Harvey shares some striking characteristics with a guy I know.

I can't stay awake. I get in bed and it's like "sssssst." Out.

One of the first ones is here, featuring the reaction phrase “Why not?” performed in a tone I still mimic whenever asked about the misguided action I am currently undertaking.

Ill-advisedly, Holiday Inn decided to full court press the series during the Final Four and Mark finally moved out of his house and into the hotel. In a set of commercials shown during March, he did things like snaek out of his door and steal the room service meals from other hotel guests. It transformed Mark from lovable slacker to unkempt thief. Bad form, Holiday Inn, bad form. In the only humorous spot from the series, Mark asks the front desk if he can use their fax machine to send a copy of his book manuscript. When the accommodating concierge inquires about the title, Our Lazy Hero answers “It’s called When the Wheels Fall Off.” The impressed hotel worker asks if it’s a self-help book but a confused Mark answers “No. It’s about a bike.”

Like the Galawakitz commercials the series ended shortly after the Final Four. But unlike the Bud Light commercials they were actually good. I am unaware if this was a calculated last huzzah for Mark or just a blunder by the ad agency, but either way it left a bitter taste is many people’s mouths. The wheels, indeed, did fall off.

I did a little research and found the actor who played Mark is named Ross Brockley and he lives on a farm in Nebraska. He’s also apparently a conspiracy theorist. Here’s a cached article about him from some now defunct magazine. I also found another blog from a guy who seems to be friends with Ross and tells us of some of their adventures. Some of the other Holiday Inn commercial are there as well.

I say we need to bring Ross Brockley back. In fact, I’m going to watch anymore college basketball this season until the do. Rock on, brother.

Clinton Jacks works as a cook in a Waffle House restaurant near the South Carolina coast. “One night back in the year 2000,” he recollects, “I saw Danger Mouse come in here. Cee-Lo was with him. And they had this other dude with them, dressed up like H.R. Pufnstuf. Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo ate big meals, but H.R. Pufnstuf only wanted hash browns. Then they left, Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo, but H.R. Pufnstuf stayed around for hours. He must’ve had twenty cups of coffee. I went in the bathroom, and when I came out, he was gone. But he left a $500 tip on the table. And he left a little note that said, ‘Compliments to the chef. Gnarls Barkley.’”

Also, I just bought two new pairs of shoes online, one being 1970's-era-lookin-heels so high they may (MAY) actually have the ability to atrophy my calf in mere seconds, leaving me to toddle along all Barbie-like for the rest of my days. Here's to hoping. Also, I'm on the lookout for coordinating hot pants.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

A picture caption in The Arts yesterday with an article about the host and creator of a new MTV reality series misspelled his surname. He is Wilmer Valderrama, not Valderamma. Because of an editing error, the article misspelled part of the title of the series at one point. It is "Yo Momma," not "Mamma." In some copies the article also misspelled the given name of a singer Mr. Valderrama has dated. She is Ashlee Simpson, not Ashley.

In your face, Wilmer! Yo Mamma!

I had a friend who worked for the G-town school newspaper.While they were there, someone wrote a Word shortcut that changed the term “BB” to Ruben Boumtje-Boumtje in attempt to hasten writing their basketball stories.Unfortunately, no copy editor caught that the Hoyas played in the Ruben Boumtje-Boumtje&T Classic basketball tournament instead of the BB&T Classic tournament until after the paper went to the printers.I assume something similar happened yesterday at the Times.

not really helping to advance my career: this weird "talking on the phone" phobia I currently have going on. People, we're cool. It's the future. We can run the universe off email, trust me on this one.

Monday, April 03, 2006

So when childless people go to a 4-year olds dance recital, you are pretty much assured that said childless people do not take said dance recital very seriously.

It's esp. difficult to take dance recitals of this type with anything but a grain of salt say, the size of downtown Denver, seeing as, at age 4, the specific youngster we were clapping for was one of the older young ladies. Want a definition of chaos? 15 two year olds in oversized purple tutus, running around a stage, squealing in octaves previously unheard by anyone but - well, dogs probably. "Dance" in the very, very loosest of terms.

I'll start with the parking lot. I have never seen, in all my young years, such an amazing array of SUVs in one place. (most with "W" stickers on the back windshield, although I saw one hippie station wagon with some ridiculous mother earth bumper sticker that I almost hugged. The car, not the hippie.) It was terrifying. Anyways - dance recital. Unbearably cute. Even the bitchiest, iciest, coldest of hearts, such as myself, melted a little. Okay, a lot. I was laughing so hard, I was in tears.

It was also a crisp 140 degrees in the junior high auditorium where this little festival was held, and I had already had one major heart palpitation/flashback episode walking in, because the building was an EXACT REPLICA OF MY MIDDLE SCHOOL AND HOLY CRAP WAS THAT EVER A BAD TIME IN MY LIFE OR WHAT. Grandparents of all shapes and sizes, sweating stage moms wielding mascara like branding irons, a whir of video cameras, and "seat saving" almost caused several meltdowns and I swear to you, I heard at least one mom utter "always was a total bitch" at anothers back. The fact that a three year old was wearing mascara? Thats really worthy of a whole nother blog post.

We had bets going in that we'd witness at least one dramatic from-stage tumble, several "HI MOM" shout-n-waves, a few bouts of tears, an at least one tutu lift/mooning. No tears, and no fall from stage, although several trips and plenty of hamming it up.

Really, the most fascinating thing was the (Kafkaesque, only because of the constant threat of imminent dance danger along with the odd animal refrences) storytelling. I was unaware that when girl children are very, very small, you cannot rely on music alone. Therefore, along with the visual entertainment, the audience was treated to some very stream-of-conciousness tales. The rhythm, it was not going to get them without some assistance. There was an overly condescending dance teacher (in purple metallic hippie pants with flowly slits up the side, they were a miracle of fashion) who read aloud to the girls over a microphone, instructing them as they seizured/plied along. In a 2-hour long program of probably 20 different "dances," (named such totally thrilling things as "The Faerie Princesses and the Queen," "The Faerie Princesses and the Unicorn*," "The Faerie Princesses at the Babbling Brook"), I'd guesstimate that 3/4 of the productions were narrated.

If only I had audio clips.

"The Faerie Princesses were very sleepy. (pile of 2 year olds and itchy mesh and Cover Girl products on the stage floor). But then the Faerie Princesses woke up! (children slowly use each other's dresses to extract themselves from increasingly chittering pile, sounding not unlike a pile of test mice, who've been sucking helium all afternoon.) The Faerie Princesses were covered in raindrops (children induce self-inflicted Shaken Baby Syndrome, trying to get those goddamn imaginary raindrops off their flowery ponytail holders.) Then the Faerie Princesses run to the babbling brook (all children but three or so scamper to a line taped across the stage. These three look incresingly concerned and confused, at least one exits stage right by plowing into a curtain.) The BROOK GIRLS. The brook! MADISON. Go to the brook, Madison. (Madison moons the audience.) THE LINE, MADISON. Okay good job. Now the Faerie Princesses see a unicorn and go play with her!"

Now, the mere mention of a unicorn got some pretty annoying and inappropriate applause from S. and I, because I mean: hot damn. A unicorn? Once again, and unfortunately, imaginary. But apparently, "unicorn" is code for RUN AROUND LIKE YR TULLE IS ON FIRE. RUN LIKE THE WIND. UNICORN = BATSHIT.

The rest of the narration goes something like this:

"BACK IN PLACE GIRLS. GIRLS. GIRLS. WHAT DO WE DO WHEN THE UNICORN LEAVES GIRLS. WE STOP RUNNING, GIRLS. HANNAH. HANNAH. HANNAH. STAY AWAY FROM THE EDGE OF THE STAGE HANNAH. MADISON. GET. BACK. IN. PLACE. (muffled request for a stage helper to go get a stray) OKAY. Ready? Time to bow ladies. BOW. NO. MAKAYLA. HANNAH. STOP.... BOW LADIES! DO YOUR CURTSEY! CURTSEY, LADIES!"

Cue music swell, cue baby wrangler volunteers onto stage, end scene.

Towards the end, highlights including every single child being handed a carnation bouquet and a very sharp and pointy trophy (bad idea #1) and then having all children on stage at one time (bad idea #2)to perform what was referred to as the "Grand Finale Animal Dance." At one point there was a duck imitation, also maybe a snake, or a lion. Again, not so much dancing, but do you really raise this as a point of contention? The "Grand Finale" also included the dance instructors son, probably age 12, and bearing a striking resemblance to a young Wiley Wiggins running back and forth on stage, throwing either the "devil" or a "rock-on" hand sign, while holding a paper mask over his face and sticking his tongue out. Damn those McGeary boys.

I have 80000 photos. None of them will appear here, as I find that more than vaguely creepy. Besides, someday, Madison X will be a knife-throwing feminist performer/poet, and will not, I repeat NOT, want a reminder of the "Unicorn Spring Flower Princess Tour '06."

Also, our girl (not Madison. Our girl stayed safe in the middle of the group, kicking when appropriate, cracking smiles when needed, and just kind of staying out of the way. Well done, little Princess. Much like how my father said he handled being in the Marines: Kept his head low and tried not to stand out too much) was most def. the cutest, and is named something perfectly reasonable and spelled traditionally, which makes dance-off cheering pretty easy. Yeah, I'm looking at you, MyKaylahlynn. What about it.

Other weekend highlights: moving LJG, Agenda at Cue Bar, bridal shower, really nice party thrown by Sommer, car washing, mini-hikes with previously mentioned v. lazy dog, bill paying, car washing, and "Thank You For Smoking." If you've read the book, then you'll probably agree that Aaron Eckhart is perfectly cast. Additionally, Adam Brody reminds me EXACTLY of this guy I know in LA named Gabe. I'm thoroughly convinced that the screenwriters have had a Gabe run-in, which would be mind-boggling but possible. Anything is possible in Los Angeles.

Oh, also, my dog actually punched me yesterday. He has quite a hook. I have yet to decide if it was accidental or not.